


Blowing Smoke Over The Moon

by gala_apples



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Rave, Recreational Drug Use, Werewolves, first transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A time skewed second season in which Tony has healed from his accident and Cassie stays in Scotland. Sid lives alone after his father's death, but continues to party with his friends. Everything's pretty good, considering, until Sid goes to a party in the woods, blacks out, and wakes up with a nasty bite on his shin. After trying to deal with his new status by himself he brings Tony into it; a move made far more complicated by the wolf bringing up suppressed feelings that Sid needs to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blowing Smoke Over The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for werewolf big bang 2010, masterpost linking to art and mix is [here](http://gala-apples.livejournal.com/258019.html)

1  
Sid always tries to look nice for parties and it always fucking fails. It’s probably his fault for having no fucking foresight. He doesn't think about the fact that he needs an unstained shirt until he's standing in front of his closet, getting texts from Maxxie and Anwar to hurry the fuck up. Of course, it's not like gets a lot of advanced notice. Parties tend to be found out about mere hours before attending. Still, Tony never buys it as an excuse. He says logical irritating stuff like 'Why don't you do laundry on a regular basis, you complete prat'. It just doesn't occur to him, is all.

What he wears differs slightly based on what's happening where. You have to wear different shit to Jal's father's club than you would to an emo band review. E'd up club nights are clothes that glow in the ultraviolet, E'd up hanging out is just the softest, oldest stuff you own. Of course, all that still needs to range within personal style, and more importantly, what doesn't have a massive fucking ketchup stain.

This time he's got a smart arse shirt, navy blue with yellow scrawled writing proclaiming sotally tober. His jeans, once artfully and expensively ripped are now enhanced by the wear and tear of bussing most places, walking others, and staying out all night. He's got a handful of unsnapped glow sticks and jewellery in his hoodie pocket, there's no sense in breaking them until they're there. And his hat, of course. It doesn't often leave his head. The outfit's nothing fancy, but it’s not awful either. If Tony's being a cunt tonight he'll bitch, but usually there's far better things for him to care about.

The next step is to find anything else he'll need. He roots through the various pairs of jeans until he finds the pair that still has his wallet. He tears open the Velcro, not sure how much he actually spent on that last stoned trip to Tescos. It's not a lot, but there’s enough to buy E off Chris, presuming he isn't hoarding it for himself. He's only got one pill left, and his tolerance is too high for one shoddy stamped circle. Instead he grabs a baggie of weed and crams it in his back pocket along with the wallet, because it's not like it matters if it gets crushed. Into the other side of his hoodie pocket goes a hip flask of fifty percent vodka. The entire time he searches, his phone rings as text after text is received. He ignores them all; it's just various occupants of the car outside getting impatient. They won't leave without him.

Keys grabbed from the same discarded jeans and he's good to go. By the time he's down the stairs Maxxie's hand is pressed flat to the horn, a never-ending blare which Sid knows the neighbours will be absolutely thrilled about. He'll have to put up with Mr Harley's shit tomorrow, probably when he's least capable of it. Harley has a thing about being awake and sitting on the steps in the early hours, and sunrise is exactly when Sid's coming down and not in the mood to listen to wrinkly old bastards bitching at him. But cutting him off to get inside, or even worse, trying to argue, will only get him leaf blowing at six in the morning the day after, so he'll just have to shut up and listen.

When he piles in the car, making sure to flip Maxxie off for the fucking horn, he's sitting in the back with Anwar. It used to be that the rare time Maxxie could find a car to borrow, his best mate would be in the front, but things have been a bit awkward with them since the whole Sketch thing. Instead it's Chris keeping up a never ending conversation in shotgun and he and Anwar a bit more subdued in the back.

Sid spends a good portion of the time in the back rolling joints. One of them, probably Chris, brought a textbook along for such use, and Anwar passes him a pair of nail-clippers. As far as sophistication goes, it's not a thirty dollar grinder, but it works. Once he's got everything he's got wrapped neatly in raspberry flavoured papers, he offers his services to the car as a whole. Suddenly he's got two dime bags and a larger plastic baggie being thrown at him. Everybody knows Sid rolls the best of the group.

They get to the venue only by Maxxie's brilliance. It's somewhere way the fuck in the middle of the woods and no amount of texting for directions had yielded results. It's one of those times where everyone is a douche and says if you're not cool enough to find it, you don't deserve to be there. Luckily for Sid, Anwar, and Chris, Maxxie's got the best sense of direction Sid's ever seen. Maxxie can read maps, he instinctively knows a certain dead end street is actually a great shortcut. And when all else fails, he seems to be able to just stick his nose in the air and smell West.

The text that went around early that night said in the woods, but Sid had thought that meant somebody's lonely cabin, or even possibly a B&E'd cabin. He's wrong. It's actually right in the woods, somehow the trees are giving off techno and while Sid has not the first idea about how someone would string the trees for electricity he thinks it's both cool and impressive.

He snaps the necklace and slides it on his neck, smiling as the purpleness gives off a slight glow. He twists the cap of the vodka and takes a swig, barely winces as the drink dries his mouth into a pucker. He doesn't tilt the bottle towards his buddies, because on nights like these it's every man's inebriation for himself. Except for if he ends up finding Tony, who got a ride with Michelle and Jal and Jal's older brothers. Because, you know, Tony's different.

 

2  
Sometimes (lots of times) Sid wakes up with a feeling of huh? It's a strange feeling in his stomach to not understand the world when he wakes up. When it happens he does his best to categorise it all. Who was he with, or who did he get the drugs from, or who is lying half naked beside him? Where is he? Why is he sticky, or stiff, or half naked? What did he take, or what kind of trouble was narrowly avoided? When did he pass out, and when did Tony? How is he getting home? Once he's got the six questions figured out he's usually good to go for the day. He's had black out nights often enough that he's settled now to never knowing the full story. An outline is enough.

Generally he starts with where. Knowing where he is helps narrow down everything else. The shit that goes down at Michelle's is totally different that what would at Kenneth's, changes the what-drugs or when-did-he-crash. Today it's different. Today it's why. More specifically, why the fuck does he hurt so much?

He sits up gingerly, his head swimming as he moves. He gropes backwards and touches a tree and squirms his body back until he's leaning against it. It's uncomfortable as fuck on his neck, but his head needs a moment before he tries to move again. Each of his limbs throb, a strong indication he did end up getting E from Chris. It's the only drug Sid likes that makes him move for eight hours straight, always regretting it in the morning, but never enough to stop him from doing it again. Strange though, if he had an Ecstasy night he should be able to remember the gist of it, if not the actual rambling non-stop conversations. Instead the night is a blank.

It takes a minute for him to brave opening his eyes. No matter what substance, bright sunlight upon waking is Sid's enemy. Hell, even sober it's a cruel thing. He appears to be alone. He can't see anyone else passed out on the soil in any direction he looks, but it's extremely unlikely everyone, or even most of them, went home that night rather than waiting for morning and sobriety. They've got to be somewhere, he just wandered into the wrong part of the woods while fucked up. He'll get up eventually, and then he'll find people, find his ride home.

It's not that each individual friend wouldn't bail on him. Maxxie and Anwar would leave him stranded to get laid, and Chris would leave for a bigger and better after party. It's just that Anwar wouldn't let Maxxie desert him because he doesn't have the confidence that he could find another ride, Chris would insist on having them all come with, and Anwar can't drive so he lacks the physical skills to bail. The sum of the whole is more moral than its parts. Or something.

Even worse than the sun scratching into his eyes, is his leg. The general pounding of his limbs has condensed into his left leg being thoroughly unimpressed. He takes a look down, and then does a double take. His jeans are ripped away at the knee, ragged strings of fabric half fluttering. The half that isn't matted into all the dried blood. His calf is covered in blood, and when he looks closer he can see ugly, torn, flapping skin.

Sid closes his eyes again so he doesn't have to see it, but of course it hovers in his mind. He spirals through the questions that are supposed to make things right, whowhatwherewhenwhyhow, and he can't answer any of them. Which, granted, does happen sometimes, with the right combination of tequila and cocaine. But it's never happened when the answer has been so needed. It's pretty damn important to know why his leg is torn apart.

In the end he decides not to freak out about it. It's not the first time he's gotten injured at a party. There was the time rum lowered his reaction time until he moved slower than a slamming door and broke two fingers. There was trying to touch the sparkling bonfire that one time they did shrooms while camping. There were the hundreds of times he's gotten stoned enough to be wobbly and skinned a knee. And even if you exclude his clumsy arse self, he's seen other people get hurt too. Mandy Riveson jumping off the second story because she was drunk and it was in a MCR song. Laine Fiddler showing up to school the next day with a dozen stitches from falling into and shattering a glass table. Hell, what about Cameron Stump breaking a rib after a large screen TV fell off its place mounted to the wall? Freaking out isn't going to help shit, isn't going to get him to the car and then a walk-in any faster, so what's the point?

When he stands up it's not as easy to dismiss. His leg fucking throbs, unclassifiable, a dull ache like his skin is swelling and a sharp shooting pain up his veins all at once. He takes a slow step and nearly falls to his knees, his leg just does _not_ want to support him. But he doesn't have time for this. They might not leave, but if they're awake, the longer he takes the more pissed they'll be. And if they're not awake, he's got the rights to lord it over them. Not to mention he's still got to go home and deal with Mr Harley.

With each limped step he takes trying to get closer to the car his leg hurts more. His skin heats and it starts to pump blood. After a minute Sid has to stop and use his belt to press his hat into place. It's dirty, he'll need a jab probably, his hat still has leaves on it for godsakes, but it's better than a stream down his leg.

Eventually he finds the wired trees and from there it's easy enough to find where all the cars are parked. Maxxie and Anwar are already in it, driver and shotgun as always. Apparently Chris went home with Jal and didn't need a ride. Which is weird, as they are the least close in the group of people Sid considers his friends, but whatever. Not his problem. As soon as he gingerly sits they take off. Sid wishes he had shot gun so he didn't have to bend his leg, but doesn't want to have to explain, and knows Anwar will never give it up without an excellent reason. It's damn embarrassing to not know if like, a deer bit him, or if it was something kinky he doesn't remember doing. Or if some guy really fucked up on something just decided to gnaw on the first thing he saw.

Once he hobbles into his shower and drains the blood off, it doesn't look as bad. There's still a huge crescent moon of a tear, but it's pretty easily covered by a patch of gauze and a bunch of duct tape. The gauze doesn't immediately run red, so he considers himself set. He's too tired to bus to the nearest hospital, too cheap to call a taxi. He could call an ambulance, but it seems like making a big deal out of nothing. If it starts turning green or smelling bad he'll get it looked at. For now the important thing is to lie on his side with his legs spread wide so the blanket is covering everything but his calf.

 

3  
Sid rolls a joint for them smoothly, not even jostling the paper when Tony accelerates after the traffic light turns from red to green. He can tell Tony is impressed by the way he doesn't make a comment a moment later when Sid licks the paper closed. Normally he gets an admonishment to keep it dry, like he doesn't already fucking know.

They pull into a supermarket car park to smoke. Technically they could probably still do it driving, even though it's hard to use a lighter and keep your hands on the wheel. Joints stay lit longer than pipes so it isn’t much of an inconvenience to pull over. It would make Sid feel more comfortable, it's so fucking obvious what they're doing to anyone walking past. Either they hotbox and the windows fog, or they roll them down and every twenty seconds a face sticks out and blows out a cloud. He's not sure what would happen if they got caught, he doesn't like to think about it. But Tony likes to be able to concentrate on sucking down the smoke, and he's the driver so they always stop.

Tonight they choose the windows down method. Sid hopes that the passersby think they're just smoking a cigarette, waiting for a friend to bring back groceries. They're not the only ones sitting in dark cars, radios turned on. While he waits for the buzz to come on he likes to imagine what they're doing, who's running in for munchies, for mixed drinks mix, for one am nappies because they ran out. He doesn't say anything about it because Tony would probably just laugh, so instead he pretends he's into the weird techno mix CD that's playing.

Sid silently thanks fuck when Tony turns the key in the ignition and the car starts. It doesn't matter where they're going, only that they're done with this part of the night. They'll probably end up at his house, because it's the only place they won't be interrupted, but that doesn't mean it won't be hours of driving around and wasting petrol and picking up bored friends first.

"You want coffee?"

Sid never wants coffee when he's stoned. The first time he smoked up after having a handful of caffeine pills to keep him awake all night he thought he was going to die, he could feel every moment of his heart racing at three times the speed. A single coffee probably wouldn't do the same, but he doesn't like risking it.

"Could go for eggs. Or sweets." Which isn't actually true, but it's what Tony expects him to say. It's what he usually craves, and Sid's not stoned enough to lose his want for rituals. Not stoned enough to not care about what Tony wants to hear.

They talk about random crap as Tony drives to a petrol station. There's never anything important to talk about, that's most of the thrill of it. It's a good compromise – nine out of ten stations have their own tiny coffee bar. He doesn't have to watch Tony press his thumb against the button to know he's adding some hot chocolate, some of that butterscotch flavouring. They've done this enough lately that Tony doesn't comment when he goes to the sweets aisle and stares at the pick’n’mix.

Except this time it's different. Normally he'd ripping the plastic bag off the long roll, pinching it with thumb and finger, shaking it open with one hand as he plucks individual sweets from each bin, sanitary tongs be damned. He'd count until it held a £1 worth, then £5, £10, until the bag was bursting and Tony was bound to laugh at him for it. But he doesn't want anything sweet, anything sour or even anything rubbery from those bins that have so long contained each sweet. It's the first time he's gotten high and not wanted the flavour of fake strawberries.

Instead he inches down the aisle. It's a far manlier part of the store. It sort of makes Sid shudder. The bags have shit like flame and iron crosses on them. The one brand that has a bloke on it has a disturbing blond moustache and a neck the width of his head. As creepy as it is, he still can't stop himself from reaching out and taking a bag of jerky.

Tony raises his eyebrows at the checkout counter but thank God doesn't say anything. He really doesn't want any comparisons made.

Eventually they swing by Maxxie's flat and take him out. He's incredibly upset about something; it's obvious when he comes out the front door wearing sweatpants and a pullover hoodie. Maxxie doesn't wear sweatpants, just like Tony wouldn't. No self-respecting teenager would, not in public. It takes over an hour of driving and sucking down sweet smoke for Maxxie to stammer out in one sentence intervals how much he fucked up his last audition, the one in front of a big name casting agency. Apparently if he had made it, he could have moved to London and lived on the stage for the next year.

"Calls for a sundae," Tony decides, and drives to the closest all night diner.

Sid doesn't really think fudge topping is the cure to the world's ills, but doesn't bother telling Tony that. He knows already, he's not an idiot. This is a secondary measure of comfort, because he's already gotten him stoned, and Tony can't help Maxxie through it like he would with Michelle. They already tried that once, and the less said about the mess that was the Russia trip the better.

It's three in the morning, but Sid can't stop himself from ordering a steak. Maxxie and Tony share a stack of pancakes and they each get ice-cream. Their food is much more in line with the proper stoner order of things, but the dripping red meat tastes great in his mouth. It's weird – he's had a non-stop craving for meat the last week. He's nowhere near a vegetarian, it's not like it offends him to want all the roast beef sandwiches he can eat. It's just, normally when he has a craving after he makes a midnight run to a shop to get it, he feels better. This time it's not going away. Smoking makes him feel better about it though. People are supposed to have weird tastes when they're fucked up. Munchies are the lifeblood of all 24/7 stores.

 

4  
 _Sid walks through the school. It's sunny, it doesn't make sense that the halls aren't full. Nobody is standing by their locker, or coming in or out of the loo. He peers into the window of one of the classrooms. It's mostly covered by a taped up poster for the school play, but there's an inch wide slit that he can still see through. There's no one he can see, but it's a horrible angle, he can only see two desks._

 _It's still empty when he opens the door._

 _He walks more. They have to be somewhere. Maybe there's an assembly? Not that he's ever remembered having an assembly in his years of going to college, but it's possible. But the gym is barren too._

 _Eventually he enters the cafeteria. If he's somehow gotten to school obscenely early, he can just wait there until everyone else starts trickling in. It's a simple plan, and Sid's been in the cafeteria enough that he doesn't even bother to watch where he's walking. So he trips, falls flat forward until his palms slap the cold linoleum. It feels like he's landed on somebody's duffle bag, it's long and lumpy. He hopes it's not a rugby player’s as those blokes are more likely than not to beat the crap out of him for such an offense._

 _He scrambles up, starting to stammer an apology. And then he sees. It's not a bag, it's a person. It's Brendon, the guy that always has the best coke in school. He's covered in blood, it's pumping out his neck like a geyser, making a pool on the floor. Sid shrieks and moves away as quickly as he can, bumping into a table. He whirls around and every long table in the room is full. Every bench has a hundred bleeding corpses on it, leaning against each other and on the table as the life drains from them._

Sid jolts awake. He sits, pushing the girl snuggled against him away just in time to avoid puking all over her. Instead it gets on the expensive wood grain floor.

"Nice, buddy," some guy laughs. Sid can hear the unsaid 'What a noob' and resents it. He's been going to parties for years, and when he's drunk he can hold in the puke quite well. It's not his fault he had a gory disgusting nightmare. He can only handle his stomach churning for one reason. Having to battle two at once isn't fair.

No one else really pays attention to it. Sid can't see a clock anywhere nearby and wouldn't trust it if he did, people have a tendency to alter clocks at parties so no one feels the need to leave at four am. But he's pretty sure it's still early, most people are still standing and drinking and dancing. It's actually pretty fucking loud. He must have drunk a lot to crash so hard so early. He can't remember how many shots he's had, just remembers playing one of those 'take a shot every time Bart says something rude, every time Homer wants a doughnut' games.

His mouth tastes awful, but not the worst it’s ever been. Sid hadn't eaten anything before going out, so the alcohol would hit him quicker, so it's basically just burning rum, not mashed potatoes and gravy. Rinsing with water would be a godsend right now. His head is pounding though, and he doesn't want to get up. Chances are by the time he gets back to the couch, his spot will have been usurped, and he really doesn't fancy trying to fall asleep against the wall.

Besides, if he goes to the loo for water he'll have to look at the things the arseholes have written on him, and he'll have to pretend to care. Maybe shout threats, or ask some chick for her makeup remover to try to scrub it all off. He's too fucking drained for any of it; he'd rather just wear it.

 _He's in the mall. It's the food court and there are two dozen chairs and tables welded to the floor, surrounded on all sides by tiny countered restaurants. He's been here before, but he's never been this hungry. His stomach growls pitifully, weakly demanding. He's hungry enough that he's shaking. He needs to get something before he passes out._

 _He levers himself out of the hard moulded plastic and goes towards the counters. He chooses one at random, and gives them a fistful of cash without counting. The lady gives him a tray and he takes back to a table._

 _He lifts up the severed arm and takes a bite. It's succulent, juicy and rich tasting. He licks the blood off his lips and takes a second bite_.

"Get the fuck off me!"

Sid wakes up to the shout, but doesn't understand. The girl that had been sharing the couch with him is whacking him, punches with half opened fists and flailing arms. It doesn't hurt, it's just very confusing, and he's very hung over.

"Whaaa?"

"Fucking freakstick! Fuck off!"

He still doesn't understand, but he slides off the couch onto the floor to avoid her hands, narrowly missing putting his hand in his drying vomit. He stands and backs away until she stops waving her arms. It's only then that he notices the damp spot on her white shirt. On the shoulder, right where his head would have been tucked as he was drunk-spooning with a stranger.

Holy fuck. There is a major fucking difference between having disturbing dreams and acting them out. Sid moves away from the couch as quickly as possible, trying not to stumble on the various passed out bodies around him. He checks for faces he knows, people that he can wake up to take him home, people that he trusts to drive semi coherently while drunk. It's not far to his house, but it's far enough that he can't make it walking.

He finds Michelle, curled up around Benjamin. He chooses to not wake her. She won't come back here if she takes him home, and that might throw off the tentative balance she and Tony have. Ever since Tony's recovery after the bus incident they've had an open relationship. They can fuck who they want as long as they come back to each other. Sid doesn't want to be responsible for Tony waking up from his night with whomever and not being able to find Michelle.

Instead he shakes Chris awake. He gives him the keys to his dad's car and doesn't say anything. He just wants Chris to shut the fuck up and take him home, and there's no need for any explanations why.

Chris, being the obliging guy he is, does, and only runs two red lights on the way.

 

5  
Fucking bastards. Sid sort of hates everyone right now. Chris, for not having enough stock. Michelle for buying him out. Jal for getting some from Michelle, when she hardly ever even wants to roll. Tony for not splitting his portion.

Most of all though, he hates the fucker that crashed into his car in the middle of the night and took off without leaving a note about insurance. One of the rare nights his car was actually on the street, and it got smashed. It just goes to show, staying at home never has good results.

He just wanted to get really fucked up. It was a simple goal. But by the time he made it over to Chris's dorm on the bus, he was sold out of E. Now he's got to put up with everyone being happy and hyper while he's flat for the night. It sucks.

It gets a bit better though, once they get wind of a rave. Jal's brother texts her, and it goes without saying that they're going out. A night sitting and giving back massages and listening to techno at home is nice, but a night of sitting on some dirty linoleum floor and getting back massages in loos from strangers and listening to some DJ's self proclaimed brilliant beats is much nicer.

It takes everyone awhile to get motivated, because why stand up when the bedspread is so soft? Eventually though they're in Chris's pile of clothes. As far as raves go, it's the best pile of clothing they could ask for; everything is multi-coloured, neon and distracting. Sid lets Tony dress him without complaint, he doesn't want to be the annoying mood crushing babysitter. Even if he does look stupid in a purple and white plaid shirt with red trousers and a few chunky silver necklaces; its better that he wear them than say anything negative about it. Michelle and Jal have less to choose from, Chris doesn't have much that would fit them. But then, it's less important for girls to look hot at a club, they just have to show up.

They end up taking a taxi. The fare won't be much split between five people, and it's better than using a precious hour of high-time to take the bus. The cabbie scowls as four teenagers cram into the back seat, but he doesn't refuse the ride, and that's all that matters. Michelle's sitting in the front because she's the one that can pull best, except for Tony, who never bothers unless it’s important. Meanwhile Sid's in charge of making Chris shut up every time he starts to ramble.

It's a bit awkward when Jal stumbles into Ace and Lynton, who are both wearing fake fur bandannas and plastic bling. She's totally fucked out of her mind, they're the same. It's this fucked up dance of 'Do I have to pull, or not?' and Sid's grateful he doesn't have siblings. Tony tends to manage it a bit better with Effy, who hasn't seemed to stop at all after her incident at the country club, but then Tony's pretty classy about everything. He's basically the exception to just about every rule there is.

They all split up. Chris and Jal are in a puppypile in the corner, which Sid wants to get in on, soon. As soon as he finds another dealer, one with decent looking shit. Tony and Michelle both go off, no doubt looking for dates to pull for the night. Chances are they'll end up fucking other people, then go home and fuck each other, a stranger's sweat dried on their skin. Sid doesn't really get it, but is happy it works for them. It's better than another Josh fiasco.

It's not that hard to tell the difference between takers and sellers. Dealers aren't the ones snuggling or gyrating madly, they're the ones standing calmly, waiting for strangers desperate to avoid coming down. But Sid doesn't like buying from dealers he doesn't know. There's a chance it's nearly all meth, which isn't as fun, and there's a chance it's laced with shit that will severely fuck him up. What he really wants is to find someone that's enjoying themselves, and buy their leftovers. It's a harder battle as most aren't willing to give up what they have, even for cold hard cash.

Sid thinks he's found his man in the form of a redhead with a glow in the dark hula-hoop. It's the sort of thing that an experienced user brings, the kind smart enough to buy in sevens, thirteens and thirties. Sid only needs two. Chances are he'll be able to get it.

When he approaches though, the bloke just curls his hand around the nape of his neck and brings him in close. He starts undulating against Sid, hoop going in fast circles on his right wrist. Sid thinks 'What the fuck' and grinds back.

It's impossible to tell how long they make out for. The music changes but it doesn't, it's always a fast beat with few words. The people around him move but they don't, there's always someone replacing the person that just left. Sid's hard, but the need to get off is just a simmer in the back of his head, nowhere near ready to boil over.

Chris's shirt sticks to the bloke's chest when they pull apart to breathe. The redhead is drenched in sweat and Sid wants to feel it. He strips himself of the plaid and drops it to the floor between their feet. It getting trampled on is better than losing it altogether, though if that's the only consequence of this he doesn't much care. His chest starts to heat as it slides against the bloke. He curls his hands around the guy's arse, loose jeans riding low. It's easy to have confidence in this. He's only done it a few times since breaking up with Cassie, and he still wouldn't consider himself too gay. But it's nice to have sex like Tony does, knowing it'll be fun with no extra bullshit, knowing it's a casual, sure thing. Whoever the fuck this guy is, he's not saying no, it isn't even a consideration.

The bloke strings his hula-hoop around their necks, warm plastic resting on Sid's bare shoulders. It frees his hands to undo the button and fly on the red trousers, and then his hand darts in. In that moment his entire lower half heats. Sid feels like he's on fire as the stranger grabs his cock and starts to stroke. It's not long before his body is surging with the need to come. The one bad thing about E, it makes it hard to orgasm. Maybe it's not that bad that Chris didn't have any left.

After he's finished he starts to return the favour. The bloke isn't wearing pants, which Sid could have guessed by the clear outline of his pelvic bones under the low trousers. The bagginess gives him more room to work, enough room to flick his wrist. It's worked on the other blokes, and this one is no different. Just before he starts to come he puts his lips back on Sid's. He tastes like nothing, like the five bottles of water he'd probably already downed. It doesn't matter, only the slick feel of his tongue does.

Sid pulls his hand away. It's covered in come, and as much as he wants to lick it clean he doesn't. This is a stranger, and if they were fucking they'd be using condoms, so he wipes his hand on the top of a girl dancing next to them. It amounts to the same thing.

Hours later, back at the dorm, trying to convince Chris that he really does have to go home before school, no snuggling isn't more important, he notices a rash along his neck. It's the same shape as Chris' necklaces. Cheap pound store shit, it's probably the same as the rings that turn your fingers green. He strips them off, along with the dusty plaid shirt and damp trousers and gives it all back. He can't wait to get home and remove his tacky pants.

6  
Sid feels like he's on some sort of drug. Nothing he's had before, he's never felt like this before. This is like some fucked up combination of MDMA and mushrooms. Everything is heightened, except instead of rubbing his foot against the fuzzy carpet and feeling exhilarated, he can hear everything. He can hear the clouds move. He shouldn't be able to hear the clouds move.

For scarcely a minute he puts on his headphones. Never mind that he's in class and he'll get yelled at if Mr Robinson sees the whites cords snaking from his ears to his backpack under the desk. He's pretty used to getting yelled at, and if he can make the noise stop a dozen detentions will be worth it.

It doesn't help. If anything, it makes it worse. It makes it creepier. He can still hear them moving over the beat. Added to it, he can hear the whir as the CD spins, he can hear the tiny mechanisms inside the player moving. He can hear way too much and he's about to freak out.

He didn't do anything last night. Midway though History he wracks his brain trying to think of what substance he took that could do this to him. But it wasn't anything. He only saw Chris and Anwar, and while he wouldn't put it past Chris to slip somebody something so they could have a better night, he didn't drink anything with an open top. There wasn't a chance. And besides, nothing he's ever taken has had this much of a time delay.

Maybe it's an ear infection. It's the only answer that makes sense. Sid's just fine with having pus filled ear as long as his brain isn't melting from taking too many drugs for the last three years. He doesn't want to end up Ozzy Osbourne, especially not when he's not even out of college and into a decent paying job yet. He can afford to become brain-dead after he's got his shifts secured.

At the end of class, when he packs up his rucksack, shoving in his oversized binder as hard as he can, he makes his decision. He's not staying at school for this. Whatever this is, an illness, or a mental issue, or some sort of acid flashback bullshit – he's never even _had_ acid, it's just about impossible to source – he doesn't want to do it here. It's weird though, slamming his bag onto the passenger seat and driving home. He's skipped before, of course. Every student in the world has skipped before. But it's always been to go to the cafeteria to play cards with acquaintances, or to the library to rush homework that has to be complete for the next class. He's never skipped and left school completely.

Once he's home he strips to boxers and crawls under his blankets. The noises haven't gone away, but somehow everything is safer when he's curled under fluffy clean blankets. It’s as if the down inside has the ability to protect him rather than just keep him warm. He pulls them higher, over his face to shield himself from the stream of sunlight coming in the window.

He wakes up hours later to a horrible feeling in his stomach. He's been to a lot of parties, puked in a lot of places in his life. But it's never been this bad. Sid staggers out of bed and down the stairs. He wants to puke in the loo, if he can make it. If he doesn't have to clean up a mess on the floor it's all the better. Everything aches. His knees don't want to fold for each stair. His skin is incredibly sensitive, he can't even hold onto the railing without wincing.

He's a few steps away from the open bathroom door when it happens. He's leaning forward, head thrust out and down, unconsciously already in prime vomiting position, and he sees his foot is bleeding. It's gushing, and Sid has a moment to confusedly think 'What the hell?' before the pain of it hits. Between his stomach and his bones and his foot he collapses to the floor, wishing whatever's happening would stop.

Instead he feels the length of his back rip open. And oh _god_ the noise of it is almost the worst part. Would be except it’s agony, and he doesn't care about sounds when his body is tearing itself apart. A bleeding line opens down his thigh and he curls into a ball, praying that it'll stop, or that he'll die. It doesn't matter; he just needs this to end.

And it does. After what seems like forever, the pain stops. Sid stays on the floor for a minute, not trusting it. As soon as he moves he'll rip apart again, he knows it. Not in words, but instinctively.

Except he has to move because he's hungry, he's _so fucking hungry_. He gets up to his feet and pads into the kitchen. He can smell the meat in the fridge, but he can't open the door. He headbutts it, snaps his teeth at it. It doesn't help.

He goes back into the other room. There's blood on the floor. It doesn't smell very human, it's tainted. But he needs something, and he can't smell anything else edible in the house. He dips his head lower and takes his first lick. It tastes horrible, burnt almost. He doesn't stop licking until the floor is spotless.

 

7  
 _Where, what, when, who, why, how_. Sid's brain helpfully reminds him when he comes to. The where is easy, he can tell with one eyelid cracked half open that he's in his own house. When: it's the middle of the morning so he's definitely missing a class, but that is so not the important part.

It's the what/why/how that's getting to him. Because what he thinks he remembers doesn't make any fucking sense at all, and yet it's clear as a bell ringing. Normally it's vague impressions and half remembered conversations that need to be forced into a somewhat spotty whole. But at least it's meaningful. Now it is a clear memory that seems insane.

Sid opens his eyes. He sees the blood and nearly loses it. Everything has gone mad, he might as well too, he thinks hysterically. Then his druggie persona takes over. It's pulling time. He just has to act like he would if a cop pulled Tony over. Shove the fear and panic to the back and deal with what's happening in a way that won't make things worse. He can do this – he's pulled in heavier situations before. He's never gotten arrested, and he won't get himself committed either.

He closes his eyes again. He doesn't want to see anything yet. He can make it through this if he only uses one sense at a time. Right now it's important to make sure he can still move, to see that he hasn't fucked himself up too much. He thinks he probably has. Everything hurts.

He wiggles his fingers first, then his toes. He can feel them, which means he hasn't fucked up his spine. He curls his legs closer and shudders with how much that hurts, nearly pukes when how much shuddering hurts hits him in a wave. This is probably how Tony felt, after the bus, if he had been awake for it.

Eventually he decides to stand. His legs are itchy, which probably means they're covered in blood. At the very least he needs to get it off with a washcloth. And maybe his limbs will work looser if he stands under a warm shower. He manages to get to his hands and knees before he vomits, every heave making his body ache more.

It's fucking sick, kneeling over your own vomit, breathing in the fumes. Sid's done it before, and he's hated it every time. Puking in the loo is best in all cases. The smell of it more than anything gives him the motivation to try again. He feels horrendous, but he's got his standards. If he can't at least stand and get clean by himself, he'll have to crawl to the phone and call his mum, or Tony. If he can't take care of himself, he'll need someone that will.

Sid manages to stand. He retches but there's nothing left in his stomach, he just hacks strings of spit. He takes a step forward until he can lean against the wall. It helps, like having an Anwar to drape his arm around when they're both drunk enough they can barely walk. After resting a minute he takes another step, this time towards the loo. He opens his eyes. Normally he wouldn't have to since he's lived here his entire life. He could walk the whole place blind. But if he trips he'll probably never manage to get up again. It's important he doesn't trip.

The house is a fucking disaster. There are drops and splashes and pools of blood everywhere. The carpet is still dark with piss, and there's actually a pile of shit in the middle of the living room. Everything reeks, it's a hundred times worse than the aftermath of a house party. It's enough to make Sid want to cry, he can feel his breathing start to change over. He clamps down firmly, reminds himself to pull or he'll never make it through. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a huff, and continues his slow painful walk to the bathroom.

What he'd carefully avoiding noticing on the way to the bathroom is glaring against the mirror and the reflective tile of the shower-bath combo. His body is covered in open wounds. Not long, jagged, frightening ones, like the kind that broke open the night before. He looks like he did that one time he rubbed against poison ivy while participating in stoned camping. At the time it had seemed like the only thing to do was scratch where it itched. By the time he'd sobered up enough to realise, he'd scratched down a dozen layers of skin. It's the same now, only it's pretty obvious he'd made all the furrows in his skin with claws, not fingernails.

Sid turns on the tap and waits for the water to heat up a bit before rubbing a washcloth over his arm. The fabric snags and he jerks away, dropping the cloth to the floor. He thinks for a second before moving into the shower. It'll sting much more, but at least a stream of water can't get caught on his skin. Only his teeth clamping down on his bottom lip hard enough to bruise stops him from vomiting a third time when the first drops of water hit him.

Drying off would defeat the entire purpose of having a shower to avoid washcloths, so he doesn't. He stands there, dripping wet, trying to think of the next step he has to follow. It's both easier and harder then one would think. There have been a ton of times where getting through the day after a party was a series of a hundred, a thousand steps, he's pretty used to it. But he's never been in this situation before, and there are no memories to fall back on. There's no plan for this, and trying to make one with more than one or two steps in the future just makes him start to freak out again.

He squirts some toothpaste on his toothbrush so he can get the taste of vomit off his tongue. When he opens his mouth his teeth are covered in blood. It's revolting, and it takes Sid a minute to stop hyperventilating.

Cleaning the house is definitely a project for later. He can barely stand without whimpering, there's not a chance in hell he can muster the energy to scrub the piss out of the carpet. He contemplates the likelihood of making it to his bedroom for a second and then thinks better of it. If he's sore now, he'll only be worse when he gets up from a nap and navigating the stairs will be impossible. Instead he shuffles into his dad's bedroom. It's dusty, Sid hasn't been in since. But it's a bed, and if he passes out now, he doesn't have to think about the fact that he's a motherfucking werewolf until he wakes up.

 

8  
He starts with Anwar. Of all of his friends, Sid’s stayed up late watching bad horror and sci-fi with Anwar the most. He’s the only one of them that believes in ghosts and aliens. A genuine, I am not going into a graveyard at night, one day they'll beam us up kind of belief. It shouldn't be a stretch for him to believe in werewolves too. And if Anwar believes him he can help him explain the theory to the rest. It's not a question of not telling them, they’re his best friends, of course they have to know. It's just a matter of how he's going to get the concept across.

Unfortunately, Anwar just laughs and starts talking about American Werewolf in London as compared to American Werewolf in Paris, and how they should rent both of them during the weekend.

So Sid tries with Chris next. Chris is open-minded to just about everything. It's possible he's a better choice for supernatural events. "I’m a werewolf, Chris."

"Alright."

"No I turned into a werewolf during the last full moon."

"Alright."

Somehow Sid thinks he doesn’t believe him.

By the time he outs himself to Maxxie he knows it’s a lost cause. Still, he needs to try.

"I’m a werewolf, Maxxie," he almost sighs.

"You’re not _that_ hairy." Maxxie replies. "In fact have you ever shaved? Ever?"

Sid sighs and gives up. If he can't get Chris or Anwar to believe him, he'll never sell it to Michelle or Jal, whether it's the truth or not.

He stays quiet about the whole thing, while doing his own research. Google isn't as helpful as he thought it would be. It's not like he can actually believe any website that proclaims to be written by real and true werewolves. Thanks to Team Jacob, there are apparently thousands of thirteen year old girls that yearn to be werewolves.

Nor does he say anything as he makes his house more werewolf friendly. Any rugs get tossed into the spare room. He goes to Argos to get shower curtains to tape down over the carpets he can't remove. He considers buying a baby gate and putting it up in the living room, but decides against it. What if being caged only pisses his animal mind off? It's not like it could actually contain him anyway.

A week before the next full moon he goes to Sainsbury’s and gets an entire basket of meat. He has to make up some excuse about a barbecue when the cashier asks, and it's clear he's not believed; most people don't have barbecues in October.

He makes it until the night before the moon before cracking. They're sitting in Sid's car, parked in the McDonalds parking lot. The restaurant is closed but the drive-thru is open, so there is a parade of temporarily parked cars strolling by them as Tony is smoking the last of the pipe.

"Tony, I think I’m a werewolf." The moment he says it he wants to stab himself in the face. Tony is the worst possible person to tell, the absolute least likely person to ever believe him. Hell, it was more likely the fucking Queen would believe him, and that he'd get an audience with her, than that Tony would believe him. Still, it's not like he's surprised himself by the words popping out. He tells Tony everything, he's got core values that involve letting Tony know every shred of anything important that happens to him.

"Wow, you’re really stoned aren’t you?"

Sid rolls his eyes before adjusting his hat. He's committed himself to this ridicule; he's stoned enough that he can take at least five minutes of trying to convince him before exhausting himself. "Not right now, I mean something really fucked up happened last month. I think I’m a werewolf."

"You realise how fucking mental you sound, right?"

Normally when Tony starts name calling it’s a cue to change the subject. He can’t though, not yet. He’s stoned, and he's stubborn, and he has a pathological need for Tony to believe him. "Hypothetically then, what would you do if I was a werewolf?"

"Tell you to pack another bowl."

"How about this," he blusters. "You come over tomorrow, and leave just before sunset, and I'll open a window and you can fucking watch me turn into an animal. Okay?"

"Sid, mate? You're fuckin' gone. I think it’s munchies time."

But for all his talk, Tony comes home with him the next day. Sid tells Tony to shut the fuck up five different times because he can hear every muscle in Tony's face move every time he speaks.

The second he gets in the house he goes to the bathroom and grabs a bottle of painkillers. The sun will set at 6:10, and he plans to be drugged to the gills by then. Tony sits on the couch and rubs his socks across the plastic covered floor and turns on the television.

At five after six, the alarm Sid's set on his phone goes off. "You've got to go now. If you want, look through the side window, I've left the curtain open."

"You're mad, mate." Tony crosses his legs and turns the volume up another notch. Sid crosses his arms, ignoring how the clicks inside the telly are driving him mad. Tony's got to leave. Sid knows he'll end up fucking eating him if he stays.

"Time to go," he grates out.

Tony turns the volume up one more notch, and Sid's had enough. He has exactly three minutes until his skin starts tearing apart. For once in his goddamn life, Tony Stonem is going to listen to him. He stomps over to the couch and grabs Tony by the arm and tugs until he stands. Then he scoots behind him and shoves him as hard as he can, making Tony stagger. A few more, and Tony's stumbling out the front door, swearing at him for being such a complete plonker.

Less than minute after he locks the door he falls to his knees and vomits. Moon round two: started.

 

9  
The oddness of waking up, skin searing, bones aching, but his head on a pillow doesn't escape Sid. He just doesn't know what to do about it. The memory of last moon is ripe in his head, he in no way wants to get up to investigate. Moving is going to hurt, and the longer he can prolong it, the better.

Then the lessons of last night sink in, and all Sid can do is groan out loud. In response, a pair of feet clomps into the room. He opens his eyes to peer at the shoes standing beside him. He doesn't need to – his wolfish memory is clear on what had happened. He just has a momentary hope that he had slipped into an alternate universe where his memories are wrong. And if that seems a weird hope, well, he is a fucking werewolf. He can do weird whenever the fuck he wants. But no, they are Tony's shoes.

"You awake?" Tony asks rhetorically. Sid lets out another groan instead of a real reply. "I cleaned up some of the mess. Well, I put the pork chop bones in the garbage. I'm not cleaning the crap on the tarp."

Somehow this doesn't surprise Sid. Tony is not the sort of person to clean up after anyone at all, never mind clean up bodily wastes. Sid considers it lucky that the Stonems never got a pet, because neither Tony nor Effy would have shown it any affection, and Mr. and Mrs Stonem wouldn't have bothered to take it for walks. Nor can he see Tony ever having a child. If Tony can't take care of helpless beings, he'll hardly take care of him.

"Need a hand up?" Sid opens his eyes and takes Tony's hand. Everything about the movement hurts; Tony is pulling on his arm hard enough that it feels like it'll come out of the socket, the soles of his feet cramp when he puts them flat on the floor. As he's standing, well, more swaying, his stomach churns and he has just enough time to push Tony away. This time his puke is thick and burns coming out his throat. On the other hand, he thinks he has the raw meat to thank for the fact that he's not shredded with cuts. Apparently the werewolf doesn't care what sort of blood it is, pigs woven through pork chops, or his own tainted tasting stock.

Tony wrinkles his face in distaste, which Sid ignores. Vomit is vomit, after all. It doesn't matter if it's because of moving after a night like he's just had, or moving during a hangover. When he pukes because he's more liquor than man he doesn't feel guilty, when he pukes the morning after he doesn't feel ashamed. He's fucked if he'll feel bad for puking because his entire body aches.

"Help me to the bathroom?" He could probably make it there himself, he doesn't even have bloody fingers this time to make handprints he had to spend the next week trying to scrub off the wallpaper. But it will be easier if Tony helps him, and Tony's been known to be a leaning shoulder for extremely plastered nights out.

Tony takes him there slowly, and it's only once Sid is collapsed on the toilet, lid down, that he stops panting hard enough to ask a question.

"So, what happened?" He knows what happened, he can remember every moment of the full moon. He just wants to hear Tony's take on it. He needs to know how much he needs to cover, or if it's even possible.

"I thought you were being stupid so I went and got the spare key. I came in just in time to see you transform. You started growling and coming towards me so I locked myself in your room. I figured you might not able to do stairs, and even if you could, you'd have a hard time getting a running start to butt it down with the door at an angle like that. When the moon went down I came out to see what went down. You were you again, and you were passed out at a weird angle so I put a pillow under your neck."

The only time Sid's seen Tony remotely this freaked out was sitting on that bench in the hospital with Effy and the Stonems on the other side of the wall. Tony's actually got his fingers curled around the back of his neck, hair ruffled. It's gratifying to know that he cares. He won't ever say the words, Sid might be a werewolf but he's not a fucking idiot, he knows Tony will never in his life say he cares about him. But that Tony is squeezing his neck proves it, it's an unspoken declaration of affection.

"This isn't something I'm used to saying but you were right. You were so right I almost got eaten last night."

Sid's mind is mixed. He's relieved that's what Tony thinks it is. Werewolves eat people, and he tried to eat Tony. He doesn't even need to come up with an excuse, it's all laid out flat. But he's also silently freaking out because a new piece of werewolf truth has passed into his brain. Last night Sid realised that for werewolves things fall into four categories. Thing to eat, things to turn into brothers, already-brothers, and things to mate with. The bloody meat was obviously his to eat, and outside the house he could smell a brother in the distance. Sane-minded Sid knows he's never going to try to meet him or her, what if some of the people he met along the way had the eat-smell, or the convert-smell?

The problem Sid has right now (besides the obvious, he's aching and he's got a few cuts on his arms and legs) is that Tony had gotten his wrong. Tony wasn't for eating, he was for mating with. And had he not left to the safety of a locked bedroom, wolf-Sid probably would have attacked him. It's far more horrifying to think of raping Tony than to think he might have ate him.

"Pass me a plaster?" Tony passes it, and Sid's fingers tingle when they touch Tony's. He barely stops himself from smashing his head into the mirror behind him. He's totally fucked.

 

10  
By the November full moon, he and Tony have gotten a lot of things worked out. The first thing is that there's no need to tell the others about his Genuine Werewolf status.

It had come up early, a day or two after Tony witnessing it. Sid had realised that the way to make his friends believe him was simple, get them to watch from the safety of his backyard. It had worked on Tony, after all. It was hard to imagine someone that wouldn't be convinced by peering through a window as Sid transformed on the other side. All he had to do was make some sort of excuse to get them all in his garden at the same time, and then everyone would know.

Which Tony reminded him would be exactly the problem. Their group of friends weren't exactly known for keeping their mouths closed. The second Jal got drunk she turned into a talker. Anwar was a nervous babbler. And Michelle, Maxxie and Chris had no excuses, they just liked to talk. There was apparently some kind of rule of honour that said you didn't get to hear brand new gossip if you didn't share any. And while nearly everyone would think any of them were intoxicated or lying, all it took was one asshole with a camera and Sid was on BBC news. Or worse yet, some asshole watching too many movies and deciding that Sid was evil incarnate and needed to be put down with a silver bullet. Or even worse, some asshole breaking in for whatever stupid reason and getting eaten. Okay, the last was on par with the one before it. Sid didn't want to die or kill anyone.

Tony's quite amazing at projecting future reactions. He could be a top psychologist if he was able to sustain interest in anyone. Along with reminding him that their friends were notorious gossips, he also showed Sid a few extrapolated futures. Each one made him wince. He no more wants to lose Jal's friendship for 'it all being a bit too weird', than he wants to be subjected to Anwar's experiments of whatever shit he's Googled that. Nor does he want for Chris to feel bad for him and jealous of him and try to get himself converted so Sid's not the only lonely badass werewolf motherfucker out there.

In that time they've also had the chance to devise a plan for the next full moon. This time Tony's going to be in Sid's room before sunset, instead of running for his life after Sid's already transformed. He'll have enough food for dinner, and a few joints. And the night before Sid lugs his telly and Xbox upstairs, so Tony has something to do. Sunrise is at 7:38, and Tony will wake up, cover Sid with a blanket and give him a pillow until he's ready to try to patch himself up.

Aside from the practical issues around transformation and outing himself, the month has been useful for Sid on another level. He's had thirty days to watch Tony sleep with girls, guys and Michelle so his werewolf want doesn't bother him anymore. He's not going to ever let himself get near Tony when he's wolfy, he's not about to rape anybody. But he's not going to feel bad about wanting what half of Bristol wants.

The morning after though, is worse than the October moon. In the short time he's had, Sid's come to expect a heightened sense of hearing in the hours before the full. This is the first time he's had a heightened sense of smell after the moon, which is unfortunate, because he can smell the crap in the living room. He briefly wonders if, if he puts a litter box out, the wolf part of him will know what it means, but gets distracted from his thoughts as Tony opens a plaster. The movement of his hands makes a wave of scent fall off him. He twitches, which in turn makes his wounds bleed freshly.

"I told you to stop moving, you prat."

"Sod off, Tony," Sid manages. Not the best, but then he's not particularly used to swearing at Tony. Anyone else, sure, but not Tony.

Tony peels the paper bits off the sticky bits, and there's another waft in the loo, like an air freshener went off. Sid twitches again.

"Sidney," Tony warns. If Sid wasn't bleeding, he'd punch Tony right in the face. Nobody calls him that.

Sid tries not to flinch as Tony bends over and puts the plaster on his arm. He's perfectly capable of doing it himself, but he thinks it makes Tony feel better to take control. With his head that close, all Sid can smell is Tony. It's starting to make him hard, which would be very fucking noticeable, seeing as Sid's not wearing anything. Clothes are about the least important thing on the post-moon survival list, they come after both sleep and food. He twitches away from Tony, hard enough to open a gash on his shoulder.

Tony frowns at him, and digs through the basket of bandages they went shopping for together. Sid had explained his wounds the first time, and Tony had insisted he get a dozen different types of plasters, even though he came away from the second moon with only a few. As always, Tony turns out to be right. His wounds aren't as bad as the first time, when he had to devour his own blood, but they're pretty bad. Sid figures it's because the wolf could smell Tony upstairs, and knows that he's in for this sort of wound coverage until Tony goes off to college.

It's a big enough scratch that he needs to unroll a bit of gauze and tape it on. When he comes close to start the action, Sid twitches again, making the tear seep more.

"Sid. You are going to stop that, and you are going to tell me why you're doing it." He doesn't particularly want to answer, but Tony seems truly pissed, and who the fuck is he kidding? If Tony wants to know then he'll tell him eventually.

"Basically, you smell like something the wolf wants to molest, and it's not exactly going away. So every time you move, I, _it_ wants you. Happy now?"

Sid's expecting a sneer, or a smirk; Tony amused and content with the knowledge that another one of his friends wants to get with him. Worst possible case, Tony's freaked out that it's a werewolf that wants him and shies away for a bit – though he's never seen Tony shy from anything in his life. What he's not expecting is for Tony to bend over the corner of the vanity and kiss him.

In that moment Sid is done in. Even when Tony pulls away, he can smell Tony's saliva on his lips. There's no question that he's hard, there's no question that human-him wants it nearly as much as wolf-him. Sid lurches to his feet, lust overcoming his full body ache. He takes the few steps towards Tony and goes in for another kiss. Tony responds better than he did, his tongue pushes inside Sid's mouth within seconds.

After a minute of snogging, Tony's arms curl around him, hands resting lightly on his hips. It’s all the hint Sid needs to start rocking forward. His jeans feel rough against his cock, but how could he possibly care? The important thing is he's with Tony and Tony's not doing this out of pity since he’s hard too. Sid can feel the bulge of his prick pushing the zipper forward. Each time it rubs against his thigh it feels like its cutting him, his skin is too sensitive for this right now, but he can't stop.

He groans a 'fuuuuck' into Tony's mouth as he's coming, and as he starts to sag from spent energy against his best mate's body, Tony sucks his lip and bites down hard. They sway together for a moment before Tony takes a few steps forward, careful to not tip Sid over. Tony deposits him on the closed seat of the toilet.

"I'm going to get some clothes to change into. It might take a while to find something I can actually wear out of the house."

"What?" Sid mumbles. He just wants to be sleeping right now.

"You got my pants wet and my shirt bloody. I'm finding something to change into, and then I'll finish patching you up, and then I'll help you up to your bed." Sid's grateful for Tony knowing without having to have a conversation about it that he'd rather struggle up the stairs than sleep on his father's bed. He opens his eyes for a moment to see a smear of blood across Tony's blue and white striped shirt and thinks about apologising but doesn't. He'll save it for when Tony comes back downstairs, cranky about having to wear a superhero shirt.

 

11  
The bottom line is in Tony's quest to gets his rocks off with people other than Michelle, every person he picks gets a single encounter. Tony doesn't repeat one night stands. The idea is implicit in the name. But the thing is that Sid thinks friends might be different. Tony most likely would have fooled around with Maxxie a few more times, had he wanted to. Sid knows enough, has both seen enough and listened to Tony's after stories to know there are two types of hook ups. The first is people stupid enough to think they've fallen in love, and that they'll be the one to change Tony. The other is the kind drunk or high or slutty enough to not give a shit that they're going to be the next notch on the belt. He can totally understand Tony avoiding second contact with either type of person. However, there are vast differences between getting off with friends that you care about, and that care about you, and those sorts of people.

Sid doesn't think it's too out of line to want to be friends with benefits with Tony. He's not either of the hookup type of people. So maybe he was slightly under the influence when he went for Tony, that doesn't mean he doesn't still want it, sober. And it's not like he's _in love_ in love. He loves Tony because he's always loved Tony, the way it's been for nearly a decade. Now that sex could possibly be involved it's just a bonus.

And he can't think of a reason not to. Not really. He doesn't think it'll piss Michelle off. And there's always the possibility that they don't tell her. He doesn't have a father to horrify with the idea anymore. He doesn't care what people say when Chris or Maxxie find out and then the entire school knows. He's only got half a year left until he's done here, he can handle talk for that long. Tony knows he's a werewolf and doesn't care, and now that he thinks about it, that's going to be a big fucking obstacle in any future relationship… but he'll worry about that later.

More importantly, he's pretty sure his wolf is going to be more chilled now. Sure it still won't be able to mate with Tony, but it'll know the presence upstairs belongs to it, and it'll be happy. He has no problem letting Tony go if Tony doesn't want it. He won't try to jump off a cliff when Tony moves to Cardiff. He can't be sure of anything werewolf related until it comes up, there are thousands of different sources of lore, but he's pretty sure werewolves don't mate for life. When he typed it into Google, only Remus/Sirius fanfiction came up.

He just has to think of a way to make it sound appealing to Tony. It's not like he needs another person to have sex with. He's already got an open relationship and choice of the city. It stews in Sid's brain for over a week before they're sitting in front of Adsa's and it's raining, hard, so Tony decides the method this night is hotboxing rather than rolling down the windows and getting wet. As Sid is peeling the paper off the roach so he can pack a bowl with it, the words just stumble out.

"I want to fuck you, Tone. I think I sorta love you."

It would be a bigger deal if he wasn't stoned. But it's nothing worse than adjusting his bollocks in front of Michelle, or telling a racist joke in front of Anwar. It's a bit distasteful, but nothing that anyone's gonna get overly upset about.

"You're an idiot. I'm risking a blood borne disease for you. Of course I love you."

Tony takes his first hit, and then he takes a second, and Sid's too stoned to argue with him about bogarting it, but Tony arches over the cup holders and blows the smoke into his mouth.

Two days later, he finds out about Michelle and Tony breaking up. Not from anyone sensible, like Michelle, or Tony, or even Jal. He hears it from Kenneth. It should be impossible to believe, because that's the sort of shit that he should know right away. He's the best mate, for fucksakes. They're not girls, they don't blab with popcorn and pajamas and nail polish, but they should still be talking about this.

Sid doesn't know where the fuck Tony is, but he knows what his next class is. He goes and stands outside the Lit classroom and crosses his arms. Tony rarely if ever skips, he'll be here.

When Sid sees Tony walking down the hall, he stalks down to meet him. He pulls him between two banks of lockers and asks what's been racing through his head for the last half hour. "I thought you were open!" If rutting in a loo then stoned mutual blowjobs wrecked things for Tony, he's going to be really fucking upset.

Tony shakes his head. "The deal was fuck others, love each other best. Now I don't."

"You don't fuck others anymore or..." Sid doesn't really understand, and he's sort of pissed he has to enquire in the middle of a hallway, where anyone that walks by could hear the questions he really wants to ask, like if blowing him was a bad idea.

"I don't love her best." Tony shrugs and sort of smiles at him, and when it finally sinks in, Sid smiles back.

Eventually Tony hits him in the side with his messenger bag. "I need to go to class now Sid."

"Oh, right. Okay." Judging by the nearly empty halls, he doesn't have time to get to his class before the bell goes off. On the other hand, it gives him the opportunity to lean forward and press a quick kiss against Tony's lips.

Tony hits him again with the bag and walks down the hall. Sid smiles again.


End file.
